


Strange Legacies of Thought and Passion

by psychomachia



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson
Genre: Crossover, Dubious Morality, M/M, Mutual Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 10:53:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15459771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/pseuds/psychomachia
Summary: Monsters find each other and blood will be spilt.





	Strange Legacies of Thought and Passion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Panny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Panny/gifts).



_\--it is too late for me now, I know that. I could not have known it when I first met him, but now that I see him for what the monster he truly is, I know that evil truly exists in this world and that I have assisted it, nay, willingly aided it. You have talked of destroying the ill that lies in men's souls, and I scoffed at it first, but I see now that should it succeed, men such as him could not exist to poison the rest of mankind. I may have willingly walked to my damnation, but I pray your experiment, though too late to save me, will save many others._

_Your friend,_

_Alan_

He quickly pocketed the scrap of paper as the constable re-entered the room. The body, unrecognizable as his friend from so many years ago, lay cold at his feet. Blood pooled around him.

It wasn't the first time.

“You say you found him like this, sir?” Constable Barnes said, flipping open his notebook and jotting something down.

“Yes,” he answered. “He had notified me some time ago that he was in some mental distress and wished me to come up to visit. I arrived this evening and--” He stopped.

Barnes appeared sympathetic. “Well, it seems pretty clear to me that this man shot himself.” He looked around the room, a disapproving look upon seeing the broken glass and torn pages strewn about. “Neighbors said he didn't go out that much, kept odd hours, always had queer smells and smoke coming out his window.”

“He was a rather private individual,” the man said. “He may have thought he needed to be alone to figure his problems out.”

Barnes snorted. “If you don't mind me saying so, sir, what he needed was to get away from the city. Good clean country air. Men like this with that kind of brain, all cooped up with chemicals and books, don't need to be obsessing by themselves. That's how you go mad.” He stopped, remembering who was talking to. “No offense intended, sir.”

The doctor smiled. “It's all right, Constable.” He moved out of the way as another constable entered the room, accompanied by two men carrying a stretcher. “I agree with you completely.”

“You will not be leaving town anytime soon, sir?” Barnes asked as the man ducked his head out of the door frame, preparing to leave. “I don't believe we'll have any further questions for you, but if we do—”

“Of course,” he said. “I have business here which will keep me occupied.”

Once he made it outside to the streets, Dr. Henry Jekyll breathed in deeply, and took out the scrap of paper from his pocket again. He turned it over and ran a finger along the back against the two words scrawled, almost illegible if you weren't familiar with the handwriting.

Dorian Gray

“Well,” he said softly. “Let's see what sort of monster you are.”

* * *

It was easier said than done, Jekyll thought, however. For although he may be a respectable doctor with a currently impeccable reputation (even if the foundation of it is rotted to the core), it is not the sort of reputation that will admit you into the home of a known sybarite and eccentric. And he can hardly call upon the gentleman without a plausible motive. Confess the truth and be thought a madman, if he was wrong, or someone to be disposed of, if he was correct?

He could lie, of course, and confront Gray one inside, but even the thought sends a paroxysm into his brain. He clenched his fists a little and centered himself until the beast subsided. Hyde is only too ready to be let free again and should he be cornered--

It would not do to dwell on these things. On that matter, he shall be firm.

And so he found himself shortly before midnight, lurking outside the man's home. It was perhaps a good thing, he thought, that previous experience allowed him to find the best places to remain unseen as well as possible escape routes. He was not as young as Hyde, but he was far less likely to invite inquiry, being the nondescript older gentleman that he was.

He briefly wondered if he would know Dorian Gray when he saw him.

And then a man stepped out, and it was clear despite his common attire and a scarf nominally used as disguise, that he had found his prey. No one could mistake the hint of gold, the angelic good looks, or the utter superiority with which the man unconsciously carried himself.

Henry was surprised to find himself smiling. Was it he or Hyde that felt that burst of inexplicable delight?

It was not hard to follow Gray, and he discretely tailed him at some distance. As he surmised, no one disturbed him. For at this hour, reputable society is either sleeping in their own beds or in the beds of another reputable person, and so the only ones left on the street will be the ones engaged in their own forms of licentious behavior.

“You may as well state your business,” a voice said, quietly but loud enough for someone who had been following him to hear. “I am in no temper to be trifled with tonight and if you intend on robbing me, I will let you know that there is little profit to be made from me.”

It was unexpected to be caught so soon, but not surprising; some men are more perceptive than others, especially when it comes to the ills that men may wish to inflict upon them, having committed those ills themselves upon others.“Forgive me, Mr. Gray, but I am not here to rob you or to commit an assault.” He stepped into the nearby glow of a lamplight.

Gray also walked forward and the light illuminated splendidly, showing a remarkably attractive young man. It was disquieting. If what Henry knew was true, than it was not the face of a man rapidly approaching 40, but that of one half his age. “You have the advantage of me, sir. You have my name, but I don't have yours.”

“Dr. Henry Jekyll,” he says and watched the man carefully.

“I cannot say that I am familiar with you,”Gray said. “I tend not to travel in the realms of science and medicine.”

“But you have had friends that do so,” he replied. “One in particular, that I believe was very close to you. As he was somewhat close to me.”

Gray's beautiful face twisted slightly and Henry could see something creeping beneath it. “I am afraid I do not follow, doctor.”

“Alan Campbell,” he said and watched the minute trembling of the man's hands, the quiver to his mouth which passed quickly before Gray's face turned smooth and still, like a mask.

“Indeed,” Gray said. “The name does sound familiar, but I'm afraid I haven't spoken to him in quite some time. I regret the loss of his friendship.”

There was a pang in Henry as the memory of another—poor Hastie—wrenches its pitiful self forward, but he pushed it back. “Then I am sorry to give you more to regret,” he said. “Alan took his life this evening.”

Henry tried to make out the expression that flitted across Gray's face—Guilt? Fear? Relief?--but it passed too quickly. “Poor soul,” he murmured. “Such a pity.” He seemed lost in thought.

There was silence for some time before Gray roused himself and Henry saw a new sharpness in his eyes. “But you have not come to just deliver this unhappy news, doctor.”

“No, I have not,” Henry agreed. “But I believe the rest of our conversation should be held somewhere more private.”

Gray's answering laugh was harsh and bitter. “I know just the place,” he said. 

* * *

It was clearly a journey Gray had taken before, and the hansom took them down constricted, gloomy streets. Henry felt some trepidation. As Jekyll, he had never dared walk them; as Hyde, they were as familiar to him as his own feet. The men and women that dwelt there – the ones he thought to save somehow—how foolish it all seemed in retrospect.

Gray, for his part, veered between wild mania—striking a horse to make it go faster and laughing when the driver did so, and sullen quiet—sometimes so still that Henry had to check to see if the man was still breathing. If he were but the respectable doctor he used to be, he would attribute it to opiates or some withdrawal from the cursed drugs, but he was not that man and he recognized the same terrible struggle from his own soul. It was unnerving, but also strangely comforting to see it mirrored in front of him, and he wondered if that is why he did not even ask their destination, only alighting next to Gray without question or complaint.

He made no further noise when the hansom stopped and they stepped out. Gray paid the fare and they began to walk quickly away. It was only when the driver was no longer in sight that Henry said, “Mr. Gray.”

“Dorian.” The man's mouth quirked. “In memory of our good friend, Alan, it seems only right that we should abjure formalities.”

“Dorian, then,” Henry replied. “I would ask what errand you have brought me upon.”

“You have caught me at a rather inopportune moment, Henry,” Dorian said. “I had ventured out to forget my troubles and you are an insistent reminder of them.”

“And yet you have invited me along.” The streets were uneven and around him, dingy houses and old factories loom, leaving only sickly lamps to light their way. “Unless you are planning to abandon me or--”

“I would not have left a driver as witness were that to be the case,” he said. “I would talk with you while conducting my business, since it is clear you have something you wish to address with me.” He turned back, and quite naturally, Henry found himself doing the same.

“Do you believe us to be followed?”

“Let us just say,” he replied, “that circumstances being what they are, I am hardly in the mood to be stalked by more than one gentleman this evening.”

* * *

Upon reflection, Henry thought, perhaps he should have just stayed with the driver.

The den was squalid, teaming with all sorts of lowlifes, the dregs of society. That Dorian should walk among them seemed incongruous, as if an archangel had deigned to walk into a public house and grace its denizens with his presence. But he saw Dorian's nostrils quivering, his intake of breath, and the angel fell back to earth.

Henry lagged behind a bit, observing in horror and fascination, so he was slow to see Dorian talking to a blond man, one whose looks paled in comparison to the beauty before him. The unfortunate youth had clearly partaken of the den's offerings for some time, for he looked dazed and languid, his movements slow and clumsy.

The man blinked as Henry approached. “Dorian, you didn't tell me you brought someone.”

Dorian looked back. “He's my chaperon, Adrian,” he said sardonically. “I had been planning on a different sort of evening.”

Henry opened his mouth to refute.

“Come have a drink, Henry,” Dorian said. “And we can have that edifying conversation you promised.”

The brandy at the bar did not tempt him, and Henry hung back, next to a sailor sleeping on a table. He watched warily as two slatternly women neared Dorian and his friend. Dorian muttered something to the other man, and the woman grew angry.

A brief exchange of words, a few coins tossed on the counter, and Dorian arose, leaving his friend sitting still at the bar. His face looked pained, as he drew closer to Henry and said in a low voice, “We will have to find another place to talk.”

The curtain pushed aside, they were almost through, when the woman said, “There goes the devil's bargain,” loud enough for all to hear.

“Curse you!” Dorian snapped. “Don't call me that.”

“Prince Charming is what you like to be called, ain't it?” she yelled mockingly after they leave.

Outside, Henry lets out a sigh, and turned to Dorian. “Prince Charming?”

Dorian only gripped his arm tighter and pulled him so quickly along that Henry was forced to run, sliding along wet stones as a rain drizzled down upon them . They moved along dim streets and darkened archways so fast that he clung to Dorian, stumbling and new to everything that his companion seemed to know by instinct.

Then a blinding pain.

Henry was on the cold stone, knocked back a few feet and dazed. Had he fallen? He reached a hand to his temple and felt a stickiness on his fingers. Blood?

It took him a moment to realize they were no longer alone

There was a short, heavy man in front of him, holding Dorian by his throat.

Hyde stirred.

 _No_ , he said, dizzy with pain. _Not here. Not now_.

Dorian managed to push the man aside, but there was a click. The man held a revolver.

Inside him, Hyde began to grin. _Let me out_.

 _No_ , Henry pushed back. _I cannot._

The men were arguing now, about a woman named Sibyl who is--was--this man's sister. Dorian's face was pale and his body seemed rigid in fear.

 _Just let me_ , Hyde said. _We know I can do what you can't_.

 _No_ , Jekyll insisted, but he could feel himself growing weak. _We can't_ \--

 _Yes_ , Hyde says. _We want to and we can_.

“--one minute to make your peace,” the man with the gun said. “No more.”

_Monsters should take care of each other. Let me take care of this._

_But--_

_No._

Jekyll was the one knocked down.

Hyde got to his feet.

* * *

_The world was filled with red—anger and hatred and blood streaking across his eyes. The men do not see him at first—men never do. They ignore him—low-class, beneath them, one of those dregs of society that everyone expects to be worth nothing. If he commits a crime, it is to be expected._

It was Dorian whose eyes locked with him first. They widened with astonishment, but the fear that was in his eyes goes away, replaced by a strange gleam.

“James,” he heard Dorian say. “I am so terribly sorry.”

The man turned around.

Hyde was upon him before he could finish his scream.

There was a blur—ripping the gun from the man's hands. He heard him cry out and Hyde hit him with it. Sobbing—Hyde hit him again and then threw it aside. Weak and pathetic, this creature beneath him. Needing a tool when Hyde could take him apart so easily with just his bare hands. He bared his teeth and was pleased to see the man cower.

His hands grew wet with blood.

Dorian stood there, watching. His expression remained unreadable. .

With a final gurgle, the cries stopped. Hyde was still crouched over the body. His hands spasmed, grasping at empty air.

Inside him, Jekyll was sobbing. Why, he asked.

Because you wanted it, Hyde answered.

No, I--

Don't lie, he said. We both know the truth.

A hand lightly touched on his head as a benediction.

The monster looks up.

The figure smiled radiantly at him.

“It's all right,” Dorian murmured. “I understand now.”

Hyde collapsed into darkness as both man and monster weep.

* * *

He was dazed at first, when he woke. Hyde was sleeping back inside him, but for how long?

“An hour,” Dorian said from above him. Henry's head rested in his lap.

“He--”

“Went to sleep. Or do you not remember?”

“No,” Henry whispered. “I remember. Everything, God help me.”

“I wondered,” Dorian said, his voice light and brittle as glass, “if you would have had the good fortune to not remember your sins. It would be such a blessing to forget mine.”

“How can I?” Henry replied, “when his very appearance is a reminder of all that is ugly, dark and depraved within me. I look into a mirror and I see a monster. You have no idea--”and his voice broke off into choked sobs.

Dorian's face was so perfect and beautiful as he calmly answered, “I believe that I do.” He lifted one slender, delicate hand to take one of Henry's into his own.

Even his tears, gently falling onto a marble cheek, were perfect.

A thought occurred to Henry and he struggled to sit up. Dorian placed one hand behind his back, surprisingly strong, to support him. “Where is the man's body?”

Dorian gestured somewhere off in the distance. “I left it in one of the more unsavory darkened corners of this wretched place. With any luck, they will assume that he got into some drunken brawl with one of the reprobates that dwell here.”

Henry felt the guilt rise up inside him, threatening to choke him, and he swallowed back the bile. “He mentioned a woman—Sibyl?”

Dorian's hand trembled against his back. “Sibyl Vane. My first real sin,” he said. “And Alan, poor thing. Both of them loved me so desperately, and when they discovered what they loved--”

A dark wave of sadness swept over Henry and he closed his eyes. Dorian held onto him. They sat in that terrible silence for quite some time.

“Hastie Lanyon.”

“Pardon?”

“I showed him the truth, the monster that I was. And it broke him. He died less than a fortnight after we parted.” Henry's eyes were open, red-rimmed and glistening. “I should never have--”

Dorian kissed him.

Henry let himself be swept away by the bitter pleasure before he forced himself away, panting. “Why did you--”

“Because you are so very beautiful,” Dorian said. “And I love beautiful things.”

* * *

Henry quickly washed himself near the waterfront, as Dorian stood watch. The blood was dry, sticky and rust-colored, and he hoped his coat would be enough to hide the evidence of his crime. He was unclear as to the method of sorcery Dorian employed to summon a hansom to take them back to his residence, but just as dawn was streaking her rosy fingers across the sky, they arrived at his house.

“You need not lurk in my shrubbery,” Dorian said. “I will admit you inside.”

Henry only raises an eyebrow and accompanied him.

Dorian's home was just as luxurious and strange as the man himself. There were all manner of curious objects from foreign lands – strange little boxes from the Orient, woven Turkish rugs, and carved statuettes of dubious origins. Rich tapestries decorated the walls, plush cushions littered gorgeously ornate divans, and everywhere Henry looked, it seemed to be a glittering temple devoted to the pursuit of beauty and pleasure.

He rubbed his eyes. “I fear that this is far beyond my capacity to comprehend,” Henry said. “What wealth I possess seems to be nothing in comparison to yours.”

Dorian put a companionable hand on his shoulder. “I did not bring you here to show off, as if I were some peacock vainly parading myself around.” His smile fell. “What you see here is what I show to the world. What I wish you to see is what I keep hidden.”

“Dorian?”

“And after you see that,” Dorian said, picking up a candle that he lit. “Tell me which one of us is the true monster.”

As they climbed the stairs, the rooms grew less elaborate, the air seemingly colder. The carpet was less trod, and there was dust on the railing as they reached the top.

At the top landing, Dorian took out a key and unlocked the door in front of them. Inside, the room was sparse, a far contrast from the splendor of the chambers downstairs. The walls were mostly barren - a threadbare tapestry and a curtained painting were all that adorned them. In the center of the room, there was a gleaming knife on a table with a chair next to it and an acrid, lingering smell. Nitric acid? Henry was certain of it.

“Alan came here but a few hours ago to assist me,” Dorian said. “I blackmailed him and demanded his assistance in return for not disclosing our previous... connection.”

Wordlessly in response, Henry reached into the pocket of his coat and took out the scrap of paper, bloodstained and torn. He handed it to Dorian.

Dorian read it quickly and then crumpled it and threw it on the floor. “Delightful,” he muttered. “I trust the police have not been made aware of this letter or I would have been undergoing a most difficult questioning last night.”

“It was not in my interest to have the police concern themselves with either one of our affairs,” Henry replied. “But I was curious as to why he would consider yourself to be the worst devil he had ever met.”

Dorian walked to the draped picture on the wall. “Tell me then,” he said. “Which is uglier – the beast you become or the monster I shall never show.” He carelessly tossed the curtain to the floor.

It was a portrait of a monster, but it took Henry but a moment to recognize the man behind it. It was Dorian, but not the radiant, shining youth in front of him. What lay before him was an ugly, deformed parody of it, as if someone sought to mock the loveliness it saw by showing the depravity that lay beneath it. It was terrible and hideous.

It was the perfect match to his own corrupted soul.

“The artist who painted it, Basil,” Dorian spoke lowly into Henry's ear. “I killed him in this very room. I stabbed him with the knife. I don't know why I did it, only that I felt such hatred for him and his words that I had to stop them. I forced Alan to dispose of the body. I destroyed two people in less than one day and the only thing I felt was relief that no one could catch me.”

Henry turned around. Dorian's blue eyes were wild with madness. He held the knife in his left hand, close to Henry's throat. He moved in closer until the knife was pricking against his skin. “I trampled a girl who was in my way. I beat Sir Danvers Carew to death because I wished to feel the joy of murder and thought I could lock that part away forever. But there is no escaping it, Dorian. We are what we have done and the proof is in the twisted forms we become.”

Dorian's hand lowered until the knife rested at his side. “We can never be free of this, can we?” he asked. “Even if I were to become a saint for the rest of my life, it won't undo anything.”

“No,” Henry replied. “We will both have to live with what we've done – the sins we've committed are far too grave.”

Dorian dropped the knife and put his hand on Henry's cheek. “Then may I damn the two of us further by committing another one?”

He gave his assent by kissing Dorian.

Dorian wrapped his arms around him and the fall that time was far more pleasant.

* * *

Their tryst in the attic was quite brief and Dorian was the first to break it off by reminding Henry that there were far more commodious surroundings they could retire to. In Dorian's rather lavish bed, Henry felt a new vigor previously only experienced in his youth and his experience as Hyde, who thankfully remained satiated by the earlier violence.

But there was a pang to this, a melancholy that had to be acknowledged. “Dorian,” Henry said, after another round that left them breathless and rosy-cheeked, “your monster may stay hidden for some time, locked away as it is, but mine cannot be so easily controlled. The serum I created to divide my soul has lost its efficacy and though I have looked for a new one, there is no telling how long Hyde may stay quiet for now. If he wishes to take me completely over, I do not know if I can stop him.”

Dorian frowned. “It is perhaps unfortunate that Alan's death has left me with a dearth of scientific knowledge,” he said. “You have tried everything?”

“I can only assume an earlier impurity in my solution was responsible for my initial success,” he said, as he ran his fingers through Dorian's golden, silky hair. “No supplier I have contacted in London has been able to aid me.”

Such news should have made Dorian grieve or quake, but instead he laughed, surprising Henry. “Is that all? That is no matter.”

“No matter? Did you not hear that I have plundered every resource I can?”

“But you have not taken advantage of mine,” Dorian said evenly. “And if we must explore to the end of the earth ourselves, we will do so.”

“I cannot ask you to--”

“London has proven tiresome and dull these days,” Dorian replied. “I believe that I am due for a change of scenery with a congenial companion. There is also the small matter of the police possibly being interested in some of our affairs that might necessitate the need to depart quite soon.”

Henry laughed, helplessly swept away by the man who smiled so gently at him. Dorian's attraction was a powerful thing, and it took him over as easily as the evil in his soul could. “If I should fail?” he asked. “If Hyde should take control completely and there nothing be left of Jekyll?”

“Then we shall go to hell together,” Dorian said, taking Henry's hand and kissing it. “And have the most splendid time on our way there.”


End file.
